


Trying

by the_ragnarok



Series: roll the dice [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First date jitters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from sarahnwondrland: Their first date. All my thanks to shaded_sun and viva_gloria for looking it over and holding my hand. They are entirely lovely.

Eames keeps paging down his last-called list, then pushing cancel. And five minutes after, there he goes again; it’s completely ridiculous.

He’s already memorized Arthur’s place in that list: third, just after Jess from drama club and Ariadne. Ariadne’s nearly always first on Eames’ last-called list, due to the fact that she’s perennially in need of transportation, can’t text and has restricted outgoing calls, so she rings Eames and makes him call her back.

But this is completely beside the point and he knows it: he’s stalling, still staring at Arthur’s name. His hand is mildly sweaty. Why is this so bloody distressing? He calls Arthur at least once a week. No reason this should be different all of the sudden.

Eames takes a deep breath and hits dial before he can change his mind.

It really, really doesn’t help that Arthur answers, “What?” in a tone that heavily implies, _This better be important_.

“Are you busy?” Eames hedges. He can always call back later - or, better yet, wait till Friday and ask Arthur then, on the way to the game or back. But then there will be Ariadne in the car with them to run commentary, and Eames isn’t sure he wants to wait that long in any case.

“No,” Arthur says. His voice is clipped. Eames wishes fervently he could _see_ Arthur, who gives away with his face and posture everything his voice keeps hidden. Arthur leans towards him without even noticing, always has, and it makes Eames bold in a way he can’t be when everything he can get from Arthur seems to say _Leave me alone_.

Still, faint heart never won XP, or something along these lines. Eames musters his courage to ask, “Would you like to come to,” no, that won’t do, that sounded entirely too silly and formal, and now there’s a pause, it’s getting long - “Go out with me tomorrow,” Eames finishes, a little breathless and feeling entirely undignified.

There’s a brief silence on the other side of the line. “Go out with you,” Arthur says, halfway between a question and a statement, a little incredulous. If he starts laughing, Eames may have to smash his phone up - yeah, and might as well chuck the rest of his toys out of the pram while he's at it. He really hopes it doesn’t come to that.

But then Arthur says, “I, of course,” stumbling over his tongue like he does when something good happens to him and he doesn’t quite believe it, and Eames is so happy he could burst.

“Lovely,” he says, quickly, before Arthur changes his mind. “I’ll come pick you up at eight then?”

“But where are we going?” Arthur protests weakly.

Eames opens his mouth to say _I’ll think of something_ , then shuts it, instead says, “Where would you like?” He curses himself for it one moment later. _Indecisive much?_ says something mocking in him.

Except that Arthur replies, “If you pick me up earlier we can go to the gaming store and then get ice cream.”

A helpless grin spreads over Eames’ face - of course, did he forget he was talking to Arthur, Master of Lists? “How about six, then?”

“Works.” Arthur hangs up then, as he always does, without preamble. Eames recalls, uncomfortably, that Arthur hates talking on the phone for any length of time. On the other hand, Arthur steadfastly refuses to use any other form of communication. No Skype, no google chat; he doesn’t even have Facebook, for crying out loud. Short of sliding notes into his locker, phone is the only way Eames has of contacting him.

That’s actually not a half-bad idea. Eames is lost in contemplating doing just that (“Dear Arthur, you are cordially invited for an afternoon of delight and art appreciation by your most adoring suitor, Eames”, with some nice scrolling around the edges to tart it up), when his phone rings back to life. Eames presses the button and answers with a smooth, “Y’ello?”

“Uh.” Arthur sounds unsure, which he rarely does on the phone. “I sorta hung up without saying goodbye just now.”

“That you did.” Eames is fairly certain he shouldn’t be finding this charming. Instead, he lies back on the bed, sprawling out comfortable. “And here you are again.”

“I should say goodbye like a normal person,” Arthur says, sounding like he’s quoting someone.

Eames laughs. “Normality is entirely overrated.”

They end up talking for another hour, in spite of Arthur’s hatred of phones. Arthur still forgets to say goodbye before he hangs up. Eames can’t say he minds.

~~

Eames plans to drive out a little early, so that he has a few minutes to stand in front of Arthur’s house and find some sense of composure.

Then everything conspires to make him late, from his mother suddenly demanding he mow the lawn, _now_ , to Ariadne suffering a mini-crisis of confidence in her fashion choices. This leads her to demand Eames stand very still and let her pin glittery mystery objects to his person.

Eames tolerates that to the best of his ability, until he looks at the clock to realize it’s nearly five and he hasn’t even showered yet. He ends up tearing off the decorations hastily, with Ariadne’s dubious assistance, and driving out slightly late and still wet behind the ears.

Arthur’s already on the sidewalk when Eames pulls over, looking crisp and delectable in a button-down and slacks. He gets in the car, pulling a fuzzy pink disk from Eames’ shirt, a sole survivor of Ariadne’s earlier indecision. “What _is_ that?”

“Ari’s working to be some sort of indie designer,” Eames says. He wants to lean over and sniff at Arthur’s neck, but then Arthur smiles at him and Eames wants to lick his dimples instead.

He settles for kissing Arthur’s cheek. Except Arthur turns in the last moment, and Eames’ lips land on the corner of his mouth. Eames is completely fine with this, but it makes Arthur duck his head and flush slightly.

Eames shakes his head in wonderment. “We did already kiss, you may remember,” he says. “At some length.” He can’t see why _this_ is making Arthur flustered.

Arthur flushes deeper. “It’s not the same,” he mumbles, tossing his head to indicate - Eames doesn’t really know: the car parked in the middle of the street, the kiss’ ambiguous location, Eames’ hand which has migrated to Arthur’s thigh at some point just now.

Eames puts his hand back on the steering wheel. “Gaming store first?”

“We wanna get there before it closes, yeah.” Arthur straightens in his seat, clips on the seatbelt. His hand inches close to Eames’ other hand, resting on the gear stick. His thumb brushes the inside of Eames’ wrist. Eames swallows.

He’s quite glad they’re not going for ice cream first. State he’s in, Eames would almost certainly have leaned to lick it off Arthur’s lips, and there’s no telling where that would’ve gone.

~~

The sign on the door says “Night Watch”. Eames suspects somebody owes Wizards of the Coast royalties for the curly font used there. He pauses to let Arthur go in first, subtly checking out Arthur’s shapely bum.

“I can tell you’re looking,” Arthur mutters, and his voice is sour but there’s a grin hidden in the corner of his mouth. This is why Eames vastly prefers talking to Arthur in person, those sweet little contradictions.

Well, that and the superior view.

Once inside, they both settle into their customary browsing behaviour. Eames drifts to the miniatures and models section. He’s got a small legion of miniatures at home, living unpainted and ignored under his bed. He loves the things, but never gets around to actually decorating them, much less using them. And he hasn’t enough space in his room to put any decent-sized model together unless he clears his painting workspace, which clearly isn’t happening in the next few years.

He looks away with a regretful sigh. On the other side of the store, Arthur is frowning at a stack of card games.

Eames saunters to his side. “Anything of interest?”

“They have a new version of Illuminati,” Arthur says, trailing his fingers over the box. “Maybe this one has gameplay that isn’t all fucked up.”

The box says _Crime Lords_ , which bodes well for Arthur’s tastes but less so for Eames. He mostly enjoyed the original version for making its players say things like, “The Gnomes of Zurich control the CIA, which is controlling the goldfish fanciers,” with a straight face.

“Possibly,” Eames says, opting for diplomacy. “Think you’ll get it?”

Arthur’s eyes dart to the price tag on the box, widen and drop again. “Nah.” He puts the box back and stuffs his hands in his pockets, overly casual.

It makes Eames want to take the game and buy it for Arthur right now, but he knows Arthur won’t take to it kindly. There’s Arthur’s birthday coming up soon enough, anyway. Eames thought he’d get him that pewter dice set he’s been pretending indifference to, but surely the upgrade in their relationship allows an upgrade in presents.

But even on his birthday presents have Arthur looking ill-at-ease, his discomfort in direct proportion to the extravagance of the gift. The dice may be Eames’ best bet after all.

He’s on the verge of fretting about it when Arthur looks up and darts a quick kiss to Eames’ mouth, looking around them furtively. “Um. So, ice cream?”

“By all means,” Eames says. He puts his arm around Arthur’s waist, tentative. When Arthur leans into the touch, the smile on Eames’ face feels like it could light up entire city blocks.

~~

Arthur gets one scoop, lemon sherbet. Eames is still debating. He’s juggling three spoons, one of passionfruit, one of orange chocolate, and one of strawberries-and-cream, and is seriously considering just getting all three and pressing whatever he doesn’t finish on Arthur.

“Sure you don’t want a taste?” he calls out.

Arthur smiles and licks at his cone delicately. Eames swears and drops the spoons, causing Arthur to burst into full-out laughter.

“Oh, that’s just right,” Eames mutters, but he can’t help smiling, even so. “Laugh at an old man, why don’t you.”

“Old? Seriously? You’ve got, like, one year on me. Maybe less.” Arthur’s close now, close enough that if Eames let his face fall slightly forward his nose would end up rubbing against Arthur’s ear.

This is sorely tempting, but instead Eames bends his head to steal a taste of Arthur’s ice cream.

Arthur swats his arse. Eames tries his best to ignore the shock of startled pleasure that sends through him. “Get your own,” Arthur says.

So cruel and unrelenting. He won’t even help Eames pick. Eames ends up going for one scoop of half passionfruit, half green tea and hoping he won’t regret it.

Arthur picks them a table at the back of the ice cream shop, well away from prying eyes. The seat is vinyl and sticky, and to sit together they have to squeeze, but this just means Eames can wrap his arm around Arthur and feel him relax into the touch.

Daring, Eames noses at the base of Arthur’s neck. Arthur lets that go on for a moment before twisting away slightly, raising up his ice cream cone as something halfway between a warning and an apology.

This makes Eames sigh, probably more forlornly than is warranted. When he looks up, Arthur’s eyes are big with concern, and it’s only slightly feigned.

“What?” Arthur says, with a head tilt that makes a lock of hair fall across his forehead. He’s almost disgustingly cute, and it’s a very good thing Eames is too smart to voice that sentiment.

“I do wish you wouldn’t keep drawing away,” Eames says, quiet and sincere. “I know you can’t help it, but I keep thinking I’ve somehow offended you.”

Arthur half-shrugs. “I’m working on it.”

Eames knows Arthur wants to touch, wants to connect and keep that connection: He knows this because he asked, and Arthur stuttered over his _yes_ -es like a drunk, clutched Eames’ wrists until his fine bony fingers left bruises there. He knows because every time he’s about to give it up and withdraw, Arthur comes rushing to him with something Eames doesn’t expect: a whispered confidence, an offer to meet up, some brilliant observation that makes Eames laugh out loud or reevaluate everything he’s been looking at for the past hour.

And every time Eames sees Arthur brace himself, pull something out of himself for the briefest few minutes before shutting down again. Until they’re alone in Eames’ room, and Arthur falls open with a relief that’s tangible, palpable.

 _He doesn’t want to hide,_ Eames thinks, tracing a knuckle down Arthur’s jaw. Arthur shivers, obviously holding himself in place. Eames withdraws his hand with only a small measure of regret. _Or at least, he doesn’t want to be afraid of being seen._

It’s not much, but it’s a start. Every day Arthur pushes out a little, every day Eames gently pulls at him. They can build and destroy worlds, the two of them. They can manage a little uncertainty. It’s only a matter of time.

~~

They dawdle on the way back to the car. The pavement is slippery-wet with rain, which is really nothing more than a light drizzle. The car is parked in a rather shady alley that was the best parking Eames could find downtown at the time. Eames pauses for a moment, taking a look at Arthur standing behind him.

Arthur wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. More of his hair springs loose from the confines of product, sticking to his face. He stands close enough to Eames that Eames can feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

Eames has never wanted him more, and there is some serious competition on that topic.

He turns to face Arthur, so close that their noses touch, almost eye-to-eye with each other. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Eames says, low-voiced, and barely waits for Arthur’s nod before sealing their mouths together.

Kissing Arthur still has novelty, but Eames suspects it’s never going to get old. Even if Arthur stops making that surprised gasp when they touch skin to skin, even if he doesn’t shudder helplessly as Eames rakes his hands through Arthur’s carefully slicked hair. Doesn’t matter.

Eames wants to do more - has a list of things, a litany going through his mind whenever he has half a moment to think. But there’s a game to this, the challenge of picking things that will make Arthur curl into him rather than away, of seeing how many new things Eames can incorporate without Arthur bolting.

This time, Eames pushes a finger down the back of Arthur’s collar, just one finger to feel the warmth of his skin. Arthur stills for the barest moment then pushes closer, swiping his tongue over Eames’ lower lip, and Eames groans and pushes them closer together.

In Eames’ room, with the door closed, he can unbutton Arthur’s shirt and slide his hands up Arthur’s naked torso without any worry that Arthur would withdraw. But here it’s a different business, and whenever Eames opens his door he can just about hear Arthur’s defences sliding back into place.

But here and now Arthur places his hands on Eames’ face to put a bit of distance between them, touching his forehead to Eames’. His eyes are wide, reflecting the orange glow of the street lights. His lips are parted, and Eames wants to kiss them, to slide his fingers into that mouth, but now’s not the time for anything like that.

“I’m not trying to rush you,” Eames says, quiet, and it’s as much to remind himself as to reassure Arthur.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Arthur sounds embarrassed, but he’s not looking away. Instead, Arthur takes Eames’ hand and puts it to his chest. His heart is beating fast, so very fast.

Eames presses slightly, breathes, and the world comes into a new focus. Arthur in front of him, just Arthur, young and scared and working so hard to trust. Eames drops his arms (Arthur comes leaning closer, just for a second, and that’s gratifying as anything) and then winds them around Arthur, close but not tight. His cheek rubs against Arthur’s jaw, and Eames kisses it without thinking.

“I’m trying,” Arthur says again, and Eames whispers into his skin, “I know. It’s fine. I know.”


End file.
